oh, we're never gonna quit it no
by Sweetheart Seer
Summary: "I thought you loved me?" Sirius whines, sprawled out across the backseat in a tortuously taunting way, cigarette lazily held between two long fingers, one of his legs crooked up to create the perfect space to lay between and- James blinks and clears his throat.


And it isn't _fair_.

The back of the shitty van, or as Sirius calls it, "the _Love_ Machine, _"_ is littered with empty bottles, half empty bags of chips, a bed of cigarette butts an inch thick, t-shirts stiff with sweat, an air mattress nearly out of air, notebooks full of music strewn in tattered heaps. The brakes stick every third stop, the faux leather of the seats are cracked in spider-web fragmented patterns, the windshield wipers don't even work, and something underneath simply _leaks-_ but fuck if James knew what was doing the leaking.

In short, their van was fucking _perfect_. But even then, James decides, his fingers drumming against the sun-scorched steering wheel, life isn't fair. It hadn't even bothered to give him lemons.

He sighs, jabs the almost ejected tape back into the player and lets his head fall back against the headrest as his foot pressed a steady rhythm against the gas, silently mouthing along with the faint song. The tape belonged to him, technically, but most of his belongings were Sirius's belongings and vice versa.

Really, it was their only tape and neither of them even liked the goddamn songs but it had belonged to James' mum and that meant that they loved it anyway, or at least James loved it and Sirius loved James and so he said he loved the tape too

The day she had died hung an albatross around his neck. Unwelcome and unwilling to move, he remembered the way the starch of his collar felt as it rubbed against his neck, the way one of his cufflinks had gotten lost somewhere along the craggy shore, the way the lawyer looked at him- kind, but formal, sympathetic, but removed- as he slid the will across the surface of his too neat desk. Watching with bead bullet eyes as the scraggly kid in the opposite seat became a very wealthy man with a scribble of his name.

He'd touched the money only once, to buy the van. And that was that. He'd kept it locked up in some vault in some bank where some lawyer got to sit on his fat ass and watch over the hoard. It simply felt wrong. Cancer, fucking cancer. It had eaten away at both of his parents, one after another, devoured them from the inside and then spat out their bones, moth wing skin stretched too tight, sallow and too pale.

Life isn't fucking fair.

James presses down on the pedal, harder this time, listening as the van sputters out, inching forward just a little faster. Sirius babied the damn thing, hated how James drove too fast, braked too hard, left the shitty headlights on too long. But he'd long since seemed to have given up on complaining. After all, James had bought the van for them, for their _band_.

They aren't that great. James understands the basics of how music works well enough but he can't carry any sort of tune. Sirius can sing (rather well actually, a fact that continues to surprise James) but he views any instrument as some sort of alien object that might be directly related to torture ("-because who needs that many strings or keys or sticks used to _hit_ things, like damn-").

Okay, they are okay. James keeps his guitar in the passenger seat of the van, held tight in place with a seatbelt and threatens bodily harm whenever Sirius makes any move to put it anywhere else because he fucking loves that guitar.

"I thought you loved me?" Sirius whines, sprawled out across the backseat in a torturously taunting way, cigarette lazily held between two long fingers, one of his legs crooked up to create the perfect space to lay between and- James blinks and clears his throat. He flicks his eyes downward, away from the rearview mirror and back onto the road, knuckles going pale as he holds on that much tighter. He doesn't offer a response, letting the sounds of Sirius's pencil scratching against paper fill the space instead.

And he's fine. Really. He's fine. But then Sirius is there, so fucking close to him, his breath on James' ear as he props his chin onto his shoulder. The scent of cloves and sweat and smoke and the mint of his toothpaste and the reek of his favorite shitty beer is overwhelming and James finds it a little hard to fucking breathe.

He doesn't know when it started or why it started but suddenly things were electric and different and charged with an energy he is almost afraid to understand because of the looming, awful, what if. What if he does something, anything, and Sirius steps away.

(A pained reminder of Lily comes to mind, the broken look on her face as she stepped away, the bottle he had become quite acquainted with after. Because he had loved her like, he thought, like the sun loves the moon but she had been the Earth and he'd just been a satellite and she was fine without him more than he was without her because he was simply sent drifting.)

"Jaaames," Sirius whines again, his chin digging into the pit of James' shoulder, his breath too fucking warm against his neck in such a cruel way. "Don't you love me?" And the words drag like barbs caught in his skin because fuck, it isn't fair.

He swallows the lump in his throat and nods. "Yeah, of course I do," he finally answers, not looking over, not glancing in his direction, not pulling his gaze from the road because honestly he doesn't want to end up killing the both of them if he does and there is a strong fucking chance he would because Jesus Christ. He's taking the name of a god he doesn't even worship in vain because that's how fucked up the situation is. And it is, so, _so_ fucked up.

Sirius has been everything to him for longer than he can count on both of his hands, they've been everything to each other. They've shared beds, food, clothes, everything. (They've always shared everything except Lily, an annoying little voice decides to remind him. Everything except Lily.) And he feels like a traitor to his past, to Sirius, to the natural working order of things because he doesn't just love him.

"Good," Sirius remarks, triumphant in the sharp, agreeing nod of his head. "You should pull over, I think I see a motel sign and I'm tired and need to shower and if you try to make me sleep in this van another night-" James stops listening and instead, simply dutifully pulls over when the neon glow of the motel sign becomes clearer, throws the Love Machine into park.

They don't even have any bags to take with them, no toiletries, clean clothes, blankets, _luggage_. And it isn't fair, because the woman behind the counter looks at them, dragging heavy-lidded eyes up and down the pair of them without a hint of tact or remorse. Because she thinks she knows why they are there. Because she thinks what James wants and the knowing grates at him in a way he still isn't used to.

He knows Sirius must know, must understand what the woman implies as she thrusts the jangling little key into his hand with a smirk. But if he does, he stays silent and it's the worst form of violence James knows. So, he stays silent too, lets Sirius talk, loudly, as they walk to the room marked by the key.

James knocks the door open with his hip, giving a grand sweep of his arm and tries not to think too much about what has happened on the sheets of the bed and the way the room would glow under a black light. He does that a lot, he's found, tries not to think too much.

"Oh fucking thank Mary and all the saints," Sirius announces before throwing himself down onto the bed without seemingly so much as a second thought. His laughter sounds like music.

James rubs the back of his neck and swallows the lump growing too large for his throat. "You want first shower?" He asks, only to receive a noncommittal wave of Sirius's hand in return. He nods and runs his tongue over his lower lip. "Okay, cool, find something to watch on the TV, yeah?" He mumbles before pushing his hand through his hair and shuffling toward the bathroom.

It's the world's shittiest and fastest shower, the water sputtering and dripping from the overhead faucet, not quite warm but warm enough. He bites down hard on his lip and prays that he remembered to lock the fucking door because his hand is loose around his cock and the thought he's having are not thoughts he'd like to share because those are not thoughts you have about your best mate. But his hand is pumping and he's braced himself against the wall with the other and the only reassurance he can find is that he knows there have been worse sinners in the same room.

He finishes before the water has a chance to get any colder and wraps a towel around his waist, runs a hand through his water thick hair and hopes the stench of shame doesn't carry with him as his bare feet pad across the spongy carpet, leaving fat stains of water as he shuts the bathroom door.

Sirius is still laying on the bed, his hair piled on top his head, his t-shirt and jeans in a heap on the floor, a pen tapping against the pad of paper he must have had stashed in his pocket, another clove cigarette between his lips. James' mouth goes a bit dry and his knuckles go white to hold up his towel.

He wants to map out the ridged planes of his hips with his tongue, trace the thin strip of hair down past the waistband of his boxer shorts, wants to slot himself between his legs and connect in a way he just knows they would, wants to dig his fingers into the untouched skin of his thighs and wants to write music between the knobs of his spine. He wants, unburdened and greedy as a child, he wants.

And it isn't fair. Sirius looks up at him, gunmetal eyes quick, and maybe, just maybe, they sweep over him in a way that is more than friendly. James swallows, blinks, and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, using the shitty hand towel slung over his shoulders to ruffle his hair.

The air is congested and saccharine with the chemical reek of the shampoo left sitting by the sink, the burning of tobacco and cloves, the expensive cologne he knows Sirius still likes to wear.  
"James," Sirius says, setting down his pen and paper, his cigarette burning out in the ashtray on the table now, "you love me, don't you?" He asks, but it's a question he has to know the answer to, James thinks. He shifts on the bed, brows furrowed.

Because, "yeah, Sirius, of course I love you," he says, softer than intended, lower than intended, more than intended. Because he loved him, was in love with him, wanted to fucking make love to him because he was Sirius and he was James' to love and he wasn't any sort of satellite this time because Sirius loved him back and he didn't even need to ask the question to know the answer, but he did anyway. "Do you love me?"

Sirius blinks and tilts his head to the side, and then he's surging forward and James is falling back and it's lips and teeth and hands and nails and it's feelings he didn't know how to say and it's fucking addicting because Sirius tastes better than anything else and he tastes like home and chocolate and _fuck_ -

"Of course I love you, fucking prat." And goddamn if that isn't sweeter than any song he's heard him sing.


End file.
